


He Casts No Shadow

by HewerOfCaves



Series: B2MeM 2019 Stories [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Blood, Gen, Horror, I Made It Worse, Implied Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Thangorodrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 15:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: Any of them could be what he was looking for: an entrance to the fortress. The only way to know it for sure was to go inside. But they reeked of decay; of bodies, chewed up and left to rot; of malice potent enough to make eyes bleed and melt out, to make knees go weak and shatter, to squeeze the breath out of lungs and crush them. It could be a way in, but Fingon the Valiant was afraid to find out.Written for Back to Middle Earth Month.Number: G48Cards: The Russingon Card(Blood), Horror Card(Chains, Prisons and Torture)





	He Casts No Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still getting back to writing, so this might be a little rough. 
> 
> I'm not a native speaker. The story is not beta'd.

His footsteps were lighter than a feather, but the mountains still echoed them, amplified them, made it sound like a dozen pair of feet was walking with him, behind him. His neck prickled with the feeling of being watched. He almost felt the foul breath of Morgoth’s creatures on it, almost heard their laughter. He whirled back to catch them unawares, but no one was there. He was alone among the jagged, gray rocks, among the black, dreary caves splattered over the mountains like festered wounds.

Any of them could be what he was looking for: an entrance to the fortress. The only way to know it for sure was to go inside. But they reeked of decay; of bodies, chewed up and left to rot; of malice potent enough to make eyes bleed and melt out, to make knees go weak and shatter, to squeeze the breath out of lungs and crush them. It could be a way in, but Fingon the Valiant was afraid to find out.

The warped, unnatural shadows the black clouds cast followed him unrelentingly. Whenever he looked up, they seemed heavier and lower. He looked for a ray of light among the walls of leaden clouds. There was none. The Sun had no power here. 

Fear twisted in his guts, choked him, shook him and made him stumble. The knife-sharp rocks cut into his palms, and he let out an involuntary whimper. On the Ice, there had always been someone to pick him up whenever he stumbled. He had often been the one to help others back to their feet. He imagined his father’s strong arm around his back, steadying him, supporting him. He sat up. Bright red drops of blood seeped out of his hands and were swallowed by the ravenous ashen earth. The clouds were lower, he was sure of it. The weight of their dense shadows was on his shoulders. They smelled of mold.

If he died here, his family would never know what had happened. They would wait and grieve and wait and never have closure. The thought almost made him turn back. But his love for Maedhros was stronger than the instinct of self-preservation, always had been. He imagined Maedhros here, in the heart of darkness, surrounded perpetually by these rancid shadows, suffering far more than scratched palms. He could not bear it. Could not bear to think of Maedhros’s fire dimmed. Turning back would be a betrayal, worse than what Maedhros and his family had done in Losgar. 

He tried to take a step forward but lost his balance again. Sitting down with a thump, he took out his harp, his only source of comfort in this dark place. Even music sounded strange here: the notes bouncing back from the shadows themselves; the echoes making Fingon feel he was in a closed space, in the belly of a great beast.

When Maedhros answered his song in a breaking, thin voice, the shadows went away for a moment and the rancid smell dispersed. But then Fingon saw him, hanging from a chain high on the mountain, and they were back with a vengeance. Someone’s gleeful laughter came from Fingon’s left. Frightened, he swiveled to it, and immediately another voice whispered something on the right. Fingon turned sharply. Nothing. 

“Maitimo!” he called and flinched. It was too loud. The clouds moved and darkened.

“Leave,” Maedhros said, “Shoot me. Go.”

It was barely a whisper, but Maedhros’s words and pleas rolled down the thick clouds and reached Fingon’s ears as clearly as they would have with his cousin standing right next to him. He knew Maedhros was right. He took out an arrow and prayed.

Thorondor’s wings didn’t obey the rules of this land. They broke the air with a great noise, dispersed the clouds, and chased the shadows away. Maedhros looked at Fingon on the Eagle with half-closed eyes and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “Leave. Now.”

“Not without you,” Fingon said. 

He reached for the chain. It didn’t budge. It seemed to have been made from shadows, the same shadows that were creeping back now, only it was more solid, unbreakable. 

Maedhros breathed out his name. Fingon couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see him like this, nearly wasted away to nothing.

“Please,” Maedhros said, “Leave. Kill me. Run.”

Fingon took out his dagger. “I will free you,” he said, “But I have to cut off your hand. Hold on, Maitimo.”

“No,” Maedhros moaned, “No, no, no. Please. Dangerous. Leave.”

 _He is not in his right mind,_ Fingon said to himself, _he will forgive me, he will understand._ He raised the dagger.

Maedhros had no strength to scream when Fingon severed his hand with a few strokes. He only made odd sounds in his throat. Fingon had never heard such noises from anyone, even on the Ice. They had died quietly on the Ice. 

His face and hands were covered in Maedhros’s blood: black, foul and almost cold. He had thought it would burn. Maedhros’s body, brittle skin stretched tightly over bones Fingon was afraid to break just by looking, had turned to ice. His body that Fingon had once complained of. _Too warm,_ he had said, squirming, _it is like I am sleeping in a forge._ Maedhros had laughed and pulled him closer. 

His eyes, though, his eyes were the worst of it. Once Fingon settled his cousin on Thorondor’s back, Maedhros opened them wide, and Fingon started. There was nothing in his eyes but wild, all-consuming terror. His remaining hand fumbled weakly at Fingon’s sleeve.

“Danger,” he whispered.

“You are safe now,” Fingon assured him, “We are flying home, Maitimo. You are safe.”

Maedhros shook his head. “Leave,” he croaked.

“We are leaving together,” Fingon said, carefully stroking Maedhros’s cheekbone with his knuckles.

Maedhros’s terror grew even more if possible. His body went rigid. Tears pooled and streamed down his eyes. “No,” he said, “Leave.” 

Thorondor shuddered suddenly. Maedhros slumped against the Eagle’s back. His eyes were very bright and mad. “Too late,” he said desperately, “It’s coming.”

Fingon looked around, but he couldn’t see anything. It was dark. The shadows had surrounded them. When he turned back to his cousin, only his bright, terrified eyes were visible.

Thorondor shuddered again, violently, and let out a screech. He was rapidly losing height. He flapped his great wings heavily, but could not stay upright. The shadows slipped between his feathers, coiled around them and dragged him down. Fingon’s body was pressed against Maedhros. His cousin was squirming, trying to push the weight off him, but Fingon was frozen to the spot. Or maybe Maedhros was trying to throw him down, Fingon couldn’t be sure. Maedhros’s struggles ceased too soon, anyway. A low, monotonous moan found its way out of his throat, and Fingon knew that if he had enough strength, it would have been a scream. Fingon fought against terror himself. He groped in the dark for Maedhros’s hand but recoiled when all he found was sleek, putrid blood. He shouted in fear and disgust, and the shadows stole away the sounds. He was left voiceless and terror-struck. _We are going to die,_ he realized, _I will die with Maitimo, as it was supposed to be._ As Thorondor plummeted down with an ear-splitting shriek, Fingon closed his eyes, pressed his lips to Maedhros’s shoulder and waited for death. Maedhros had stopped moving, though he was still breathing shallowly, and Fingon envied him for not being awake for the end. The damp clouds took Fingon’s body in their shadowy claws. He shivered.

After an eternity of free fall, the Great Eagle fell and broke on the ground, but the two he was carrying were swept away in the soft, musty wings of the Shadow.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
